


And All The Complications of Loving A Flower-like Man

by Rokko Hera (Regina_Hark)



Series: The Man Who Smelled of Galbana Lilies [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Bittersweet, Fluff and Angst, Forgotten Lover AU, Identity Porn, M/M, Vaan Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regina_Hark/pseuds/Rokko%20Hera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, Vaan never likes the strange man who always carries the scent of his brother’s favorite flower. He’s like a phantasm of them, a flower in human form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, agedup!Vaan. He's eighteen during their relationship and nineteen at the start of the game.

In the end, Vaan never likes the strange man who carries the scent of his brother’s favorite flower. He’s like a phantasm of them, a flower in human form. Rarely seen and bright-eyed and wintry cheeks a cherry-red when he’s delighted, galbana-red even, he stands out in the rust and steel and stagnation that is and always will be Lowtown. No different from a galbana bud thriving in the Estersand desert.

Reks might of.

Reks would have liked the strange man and his strange accent and his strange way of showing affection.

Vaan doesn’t (like him) because thinking about that (all that is their relationship) while only a year has gone by since Reks passed and Vaan could (hardly) find enough Galbana lilies to make a bouquet, makes his head hurt. It feels unfair to meet such a flower-like man. When Reks could not. Could never now. So Vaan doesn’t (like the asshole) even though he lingers and touches and meets and parts because the man isn’t a man.

He is a flower in a hume’s shape.

This is justification upon justification until the end comes (as they always do) and Vaan thinks about everything.

Everything that was and now, isn’t.

The man’s name is Novus. Not that he straight up told Vaan that. It’s just what everyone calls him, since Vaan can’t keep his mouth shut, happily introducing him, name-first, to anyone they meet and the man should’ve known that. Should’ve known Vaan had made it part of his daily routine to see where he goes in Lowtown. Spoiler Warning: N _owhere that Vaan can’t sneak into the first time._ Some associate, of a friend of a former soldier to the castle guards, said his name was Novus.

And Novus it was.

Vaan isn’t sure if he likes it.

The respectable name, ‘kissable money bag’ still has a ring to it.

Whoever he’s called, his body is like a soldier’s. Well-built like a temple and still comfy enough to lay on during a long summer night. He smells of good soap and Galbana lilies even though his clothing is filthy and worn. True hand-me-downs tossed into a open sewer pipe. Novus can wear them all he wants but the way he treats them, folding and straightening out the creases, lets Vaan know that they weren’t originally his.

They lay together in the man’s one-room flat. A fan in the only box-cut window turning slowly and breezing in more stagnant, metallic air from Lowtown, the shit-hole. Novus sweats and simmers under the heat and steam rising up from the waterway to Lowtown to the city above.

Novus never gets used to the temperature. It’s the consistency that surprises him, he says, claiming where he’s from, the weather didn’t surprise him by staying the same all of the time. He keeps on expecting it to shift into a cold front or a rain storm and that’s when he sweats. Because his mind is elsewhere.

It’s amusing to watch a pearl of sweat roll down that strong of a jaw-line and sink into the collar of a pale shirt. It’s even more amusing to press his lips against Novus’ forehead. Make him forget about the heat for a while. Unbuttoning and unbelting and knuckle-smothered cries because the walls are thin and hollow. These are the daily sounds that Vaan looks forward to when he pops by Novus’ place.

And jingling, always the sound of jingling coins because Vaan never leaves empty handed.

Vaan never wants to think much about their relationship.

It is and then, it isn’t.

Simple.

He thinks it is implied by how their ‘relationship’ started in the first place. Spontaneous and utterly self-serving and best to be had in a dark alleyway corner. But he knows he’s crossed into something (he may or may not likes) when Novus asks something dumb some time ago.

Vaan wasn’t listening at the time.

It had to be about money because Vaan knows exactly had to respond then and there, "Who do you think I am? I’m a thief, you jackass. I’m not here because I want your money. I’m here because I want you and your money. It’s like the best of both worlds, I’m fucking _you_ and I’m _fucking you out of your money_."

There was sex to be had after and Vaan left feeling pretty good but ever since then- He wouldn’t pretend that there hadn’t been a space made for him in that tiny apartment.

Some of his clothing hangs in the closet to the left. Rags, really. But they give him an excuse to stop by in the beginning. Novus picks up his favorite foods from time to time, bitching at him to pick something other than Chocobo meat. Nope. The man’s been making snarky comments towards his scrawny frame and trying to fattening him up for diabolical purposes. And if he must gain some weight, it should be through meat alone. Not fish. Not weird-ass imported greens because Vaan doesn’t care how much you push it into his face. Good eating requires good meat.

Novus’ clothes becomes his clothes. They’re nicer to sleep in than to wear outside. And fuck, it’s nice to wake up to a six feet long body pillow. Big spoon or little spoon, Vaan eventually climbs his way on top and keeps this mountain of a man from ever not experiencing a morning without some mutual enthusiastic love-making.

Though Vaan doesn’t have to break-in, but he does so to keep his skills fresh, he has a spare key. Novus goes wherever he wants though. Sometimes, he’s not home for weeks. Sometimes, he can’t be found anywhere in Rabanastre and that scares Vaan. Just a little. And that’s when it hits. When did Novus’ flat become home in Vaan’s mind? Eight months of fooling around with an ex-soldier will do that to you. Vaan still pay his dues to the food pot and chats with Penelo about their operation: Orphan Reach but he’s gotten uncomfortable domestic.

Vaan half-wishes that he could take and pluck all of the things he tolerates from the mysterious bastard.

The man’s laughter, his bottle bell-like laughter ringing out in reserved, stifled joy. Like he can’t make up his mind to laugh from his heart, sounding like silver and gold coins clattering down the old palace stairs, or shuffle out an almost believable Dalmascan chuckle. Novus doesn’t laugh long and hard like any true Dalmascan, he does it in spurts and at random and at everything that delights him. The small things. The big things. He’s a foreigner, you can tell if you’ve made him release and relax and ramble into his true voice, but not many do.

Only Vaan.

But that’s because Vaan’s a freak like that.

Smoothing ordinary things to make them shine. Chipping his name on treasures to make them his.

Penelo knows his habits and doesn't question the smell or his disappearances. He's thankful for that.

Thankful she doesn't rub in as much as she could.

"When are you going to bring him to Migelo's? I'd like to meet the man that's got you all tongue-tied."

And Vaan can just walk away, hands raised. No comment, Penelo. No comment.

His curly, long, black hair that Vaan can’t seem to keep his fingers out of, twirling his fingers into the hanging, vine-like curls. Novus always keeps it covered when he goes out prowling. As Vaan describes it. You know, with judgmental finger pointing and a mild shake of his head as he judges from his high pedestal of alley-owning petty thief.

The man wandering into corners and holes that not even Vaan would take a piss to meet with other mysterious weirdos. Novus gets all serious outside, unflappable and Vaan can’t help but want to pick at him. The only thing that makes him break that brick wall routine is his hood or hat or scarf or whatever disguise he’s using to hide that fluffy mane. Mostly because Vaan is often trying to yank it off him. It always fails.

But catching Novus in the threshold to his apartment is a gift that keeps on giving.

Vaan does it so well, playing coy and careless as his hands slither up to the man’s shoulders. Then pushing him against the door, a backdrop of out-of-work bums and mercenaries hooting and hollering for a little more action. Between all this, Novus is opening the door, distracted, ears flushing like a virgin as quite a few people give tips on how to make real love in that good good Rabanstre style.

And so Vaan does what he can, stripping free the man’s kingly cap.

A flash of annoyance and indulgence and reverie always flashes in Novus’s eyes and Vaan is ushered in, then fucked on the other side of the door. Vaan moans into the door. Novus moans that Vaan isn’t good for him, that’s he too Vaan-like. Shit, and that’s some because Novus is too nice of a guy to call Vaan childish. And hell, that’s sweet. Because Vaan is childish. He’s immature, he’s impatient and he doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.

But Novus likes that.

Novus _likes_ him.

And thinking about that, makes his heart hurt.

The man takes great care of his garden grove of hair, washing it tenderly and responding to Vaan’s question on the stupid waste of good drinking water, "But my mother always believed that I should do myself right above all things. That’s isn’t true. Considering how the world actually works and what sacrifices we make for even a drop of water," a side-eye to Vaan who snorts because whatever he’s thinking Vaan did before they met, it’s not true. "But still to my mother, I mind my hair. You should think of yours." In his tone, Vaan knows that Novus’ mother is dead and so, doesn’t even bother to remember his.

The man is actually talking shit about his hair.

Vaan’s bony hands wander to the tips of his frizzy white-blond hair, the very same that would be more suitable on the bottom of a broom than on his head. He grows it out for his brother. To look like his brother. But they weren’t twins and Vaan looks rather girly with his uneven bangs and shoulder-touching hair. But most thugs don’t punch girls as much as they punch boys so- Vaan keeps the hair and has to indulge the man who claims he’s saving Vaan’s locks from himself.

Where Vaan’s hands are like bones hastily wrapped in dirt-dipped skin, Novus’ fingers are like stems; ever upright, shameless and relentlessly reaching for all things bright. Even Vaan’s almost yellow hair will do, making them bloom with activity. As much as Vaan plays with Novus’ mane, the man cherishes Vaan’s willow-like stands even more. His fingers caress Vaan’s scalp and unravel the knots and gnats and oddly prickly things that find their way into Vaan’s untamely hair. Good water, not the one from Lowtown tap that not even dying men sip in their fevers, drenches his cornstalk tangles. Soon soap and other sweet-smelling things is lathered in. Vaan closes his eyes. Novus hums. And there’s this sort of happiness, untampered happiness that creeps in and makes itself comfortable in Vaan’s heart.

It’s terrible, feeling this sort of (love) sick. Especially when he knows better.

Lovers, half-hour lovers for coin and with open legs, make their profit all around them. Mocking them. Parading a sort of truth (love) that Vaan never wants to think about with their bed creaks and fake lovely moans. He thinks it would be easier to be sleeping for Novus exclusively for his money. Maybe then it he wouldn’t feel like such an idiot falling for something that won’t always be here. He hears them quite clearly through the walls as the man touches him, sweetly, squeezing the suds from Vaan’s hair. Soapy hands are fine to Vaan. His hair is clean. He’s still bent back over the sink, his neck still healing from the numerous love-bites Novus is fond of. They’re perfect to slide between his own thighs and make that happiness, _happening_. Because that’s all that Vaan needs. Happening, not _happiness_.

It’s hot and messy, the man’s slender hand milking Vaan for every drop. His hips tremble. His body arches in anticipation. More. (Wait, Vaan wants to-) More. (Talk.) More. (Cause, he-) Now. (This feeling, these feelings) Now. _Now._ Into Novus’ shoulder, Vaan cries. _Out_. Or in, it doesn’t matter. Vaan can’t hear it over the sound of his heart pounding out an S.O.S. Right before he bites down and forgets his own name, a few seconds of body-numbing bliss making his toes curl. Down ebbs sticky white cream, staining his long legs and pooling onto the floor like an afterthought. It’s ugly. It’s thoughtless. More clean, uptown water to be wasted and anyone listening probably heard him. Heard him shout into a mess over just a quickie. Vaan tries to get angry, tries to pick a fight but Novus looks at him with a tenderness and Vaan looks away. The happening is over, but the happiness remains. Vaan isn’t sure what to do with himself. Because he already (loves) knows Novus and sooner or later, it will be time to say goodbye (lose him).

But even then, Vaan smells Galbana lilies and thinks for now, it’s okay.

He likes it.

_A little._

More than a little.

Then the man’s pale skin, soft flesh, then scars, then soft flesh again. Novus picks and chooses what he shows Vaan, old battle wounds, before Vaan takes the choice from him. Tugging up the man’s cheap shirt and having a look at the array of stitches, blade marks, puncture holes, and old bruises that will never, ever heal. His lips can’t seem to stay away from the darkly-colored skin, violet aches now a dusky fading red. Pressing themselves against them. Making them his. It’s desperate. It’s delirious. Vaan remembers how they feel against his mouth, the skin, calloused and yet pliant to his exploration. Vaan doesn’t think of it as kissing. He’s just touching. With his lips. But they make contact with every mark on Novus’ chest. He's not kind about it either. Vaan presses hard, watching the skin change color under the pressure he applies. The man humors him. He always does. Soon and somehow, Novus on his back on the floor and Vaan is straddled on top, still laying more and more Vaan-like marks until his lips go sore.

The smell, the aroma of the lilies, becomes strong when Vaan peels Novus’ shirt off. His nose wanders to the man’s collarbone, intoxicating is the smell, is the man, is the memory of Reks, that he blinks back. That he bites back. That he swallows down the urge to pounce. To happen. To act on the temporary man (love) before him. Vaan’s never shown such restraint before. And he sort of knows, the end is soon. Vaan collapses, subdued by nothing, tempered by nothing. He’s just bored. Not overwhelmed. Not at peace. Not making a peace, comforted by the smell, such a spicy sweetness, like nectar and brown sugar hanging on the back of his tongue, and this mysterious guy, all those things incarnate. Novus reaches up and rubs Vaan’s back. He ignores it, content to stay limp as he listens to the man’s heartbeat. This isn’t the right thing to do because a pair of arms lock over him. Calls him a false name, the one Vaan gave before that became _this_. This here.

"Galbana,"

And Vaan shivers, shakes and hides his head into the crook of the man’s neck.

"I’m not a girl or a rent boy," he says not meaning anything in particular, "So you don’t have to take your time with me. I don’t do it to _you_." Vaan chats, babbling and sleepy and miserable with his (love) sickness, "This has been fun, hasn’t it?"

And so the man learns, that the end is coming soon. As well.

To make himself feel better, he steals the man’s pouch when he’s ready to leave.

He ignores the fact, the awful truth of it all, that the man lets him do it.

Because.

The man likes him.

Vaan doesn’t.

Because.

Vaan can’t steal the man away and knows, by the ex-soldiers gathering into Lowtown and all this talk of resistance, that this is temporary and Vaan refuses to have someone else to bury. Death by stupidity. Someone who smells of Reks’ favorite flower. It’d hurt all the same. And Vaan isn’t strong enough to go through it again. Not this time. Not ever again. So he kisses and nips and leaves his fingerprints all over the man’s slender and muscular frame, hopes they hurt, hopes they last longer than any new wound the man receives fighting for a conquered country.

It’s on that night they make love.

Dark is the tiny coffin-like room but the artificial light of all the stores under their window seeps in all the same. Novus was talking, is still talking, about things Vaan didn’t want to hear. He would be leaving, soon, his position was up and he’s done all he can facilitating information for his cause. He’ll leave Vaan the flat, send money and food every month. Schooling even. He has friends in some of the teaching facilities in Archades, of all places. All Vaan needed to do was to say yes and he’ll move mountains to make sure Vaan has a better life. His words bubble out of his mouth like nectar dripping down a petal and Vaan listens and listens until his heart snaps. Not into two. He’s not that dramatic.

And still, it snaps and Vaan rushes forward.

That’s all he knows how to do.

Their lips crash together and Vaan grabs Novus’ mane and brings a mighty man to serve between his legs. Vaan claws off the man’s shirt and with his ankles, makes war with the loose belt that keeps the slacks on. It gives. The man leaves sweet sloppy kisses along Vaan’s neck. The thief groans, feverish and foolish, loving every heated touch. Vaan lifts up his own shirt, hardly ashamed of the hollowness that shapes his belly and his ribs that are jutting through paper-like skin. But the man is, whispering desires and promises and oaths of taking care of Vaan right. It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid. Gently worshiping all of his sand-colored skin, saying shit that isn’t ever gonna happen. A tongue brushes against a pinkish nipple and Vaan grabs harder, tighter. Then comes Novus’ lips, sucking on the tender nub and making it bud in pleasure. His second nipple gets the same treatment before the man’s head moves further south.

Vaan’s knees rattle together until the man firmly parts them and slides off his pants and underwear. For a moment, for an eternity, Novus lifts his head and asks, "Is this what you want? I didn’t intend to-" And Vaan doesn’t care, he kicks the man off and gets on top instead. "You’re upset." No shit. Naked and full of jittery nerves, Vaan grinds their cocks together. His body shudders, Vaan pants, and the man steadies his hips to rock to a steady beat.

"Forgive me, Galbana."

And there it is. The focus point of everything, Galbana lilies.

"Stop talking, the only good thing about you was the smell," Vaan says and almost means it until he looks into blue eyes, stabbing him with their conviction and lust and love swirling in the depths. It makes his resolve buckle. His eyes water like a child. Suddenly, he feels small and stupid. Uselessly loving someone that would rather die like a dog in a street than live, than thrive, than survive with him. Pressure is building up in his balls and Vaan slumps forward and spreads his hips, presenting himself freely.

"Let’s fuck," he says, "Fuck me until I forget you."

"I can’t stay with you," Novus says instead and Vaan tears into his own lip, blood and pain a happy distraction. The man’s hands cups his ass and squeezes Vaan’s cheeks. The thief leans into the action, focusing on the light pinches and the one finger circling his hole. "There are too many things I must make right. This was a dalliance that I had no right in taking and you’ve suffered for it. Haven’t you?" His touch leaves briefly before the finger returns, slick with rose-water scented lube as it prods into Vaan’s entrance. Rose-scented lube. It’s strange when you think about the things Novus buys. The expensive shit, that more or less, is for Vaan. For taking care of Vaan. They could have had sex rough and hard but Novus likes making Vaan feel like a somebody.

"Shut up. I don’t want you to stay with me. I don’t even want to go with you. And you can keep all your shit too, I don’t need it," Vaan huffs into the man’s chest, eyes closing, focusing on the sensation stretching his inner walls. "Why do I always have to want something with you? Giving me shit doesn’t make me feel better." One finger becomes two and Vaan wiggles his hips. Then three, soundly preparing him for what’s to come.

"Then what do you want?"

Vaan answers that question by pulling Novus’ fingers out and positioning himself over the man’s saluting cock. Then sinks himself down, taking in the long and thick length, inch by inch. His breath leaves him as he lowers himself, the fullness, the heat, the smell of Galbana lilies and musk and sex, they take the spot his common sense left behind. Bottomed out with Novus’ balls pressing against his cheeks, Vaan braces himself and moves. Novus’ hands take to Vaan’s hips, lifting him slightly before thrusting up, plowing through his tight space. Vaan grunts, mouth falling open as reedy cries escape. He rolls his thighs, riding, moaning, pleasure slamming into his inner walls and sensitive nerves. Electrifying. Stunning. Novus adjusts their position, carefully moving Vaan to lay on his back.

"Look at me."

And Vaan does, surrounded on all sides by Novus and his long, cascading hair. He looks up into that familiar face, that loving face, the man he knows now and after, never again. Novus’ kisses Vaan’s face, lips brushing against every curve and bump that sits on his ruddy skin. Still thrusting into him with gusto and leaving Vaan no room to say anything beyond three syllables. Vaan digs into nails into the man’s bare back, breaking skin and resting his head into the man’s shoulder. Pleasure is rising, making his cock that’s trapped between their bellies dribble out pre-cum that mixes with the sweat and makes their bodies grind even faster.

"I don’t want things to end like this."

Vaan purses his lips, mind hazy, body thrumming in ecstasy. "I love you," he says, out loud, clear and crisp. His body arches, his fingers claw. "I loved you," he clarifies, and that is that.

The end.

Novus’ thrusts turn soft and slow, single strokes dragging out the Vaan’s impending orgasm. The thief pants, fights, tries to knock his knees together to make the man work faster. Fuck him faster. Their hands interlock without Vaan’s permission, and Novus leans low, resting his forehead on Vaan. Their eyes meet. Their lips don’t. Vaan isn’t sure what Novus is looking for but he doesn’t find it, that face, those lips sighing in defeat. With a final thrust, Vaan is finally seeing white and stars and releases. Novus holds onto him as his body shakes, his dick squirting out white sticky pleasure. Then he comes, filling Vaan up with his essence.

Novus is usually one for baths and showers and clean up right after but all his energy leaves him. He bundles Vaan up and they laid together, stained and stupid and hot. Hands still held. Things left unsaid as Vaan stumbles into sleep and wakes up alone.

The flat is different when Vaan is alone. Air sweeps in like winds rushing inside of an opened tomb. The scent of Galbana lilies lingers. And so does the man’s touch. The spot next to him is warm and today, for now, it doesn’t hurt. Being left behind again. Vaan gets up and digs through Novus' closet. A pair of scissor gleam in the sunlight. Reks' hair twinkles as it falls onto his feet, him slicing through his hair. He hack and hacks until he feels a cool breeze rest on his neck.

Then in the mirror, he looks nothing like Reks, nothing like Galbana and almost like Vaan.

A breath in. A breath out.

In the end, Vaan never likes Novus but loves the smell he left behind. And that's okay. It'll be okay.


	2. Bonus Chapter: Novus at Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galbana tucks into his war-mongering limbs and lays blissfully in rest, unconcerned that Vayne could kill him in a fit of madness. 
> 
> Of course, he wouldn’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I meant to write this as its own fic but I couldn't write enough words to justify it. 
> 
> So boom, second chapter. 
> 
> I write a very stiff and uncooperative Vayne it seems.

Eventide.

The lateness of the hour is like an old friend.

Unwanted. Unneeded. And yet inspiring fondness all the same. Baleful eyes awaken in the half-hearted darkness that is and will always be Rabanastre’s Lowtown. Vayne blinks, the insignificant gesture as insignificant as it can be. And yet he knows, as he has for the last eight months, he will not be getting back to sleep so easily.

It’s tempting to blame his surroundings.

He sleeps oddly. He dreams oddly.

There’s no sun to greeting him in the morning. There’s no moon to encourage him to sleep at night. All of Lowtown is dark, day or night, blanketed in the metal-born twilight that divides the city on high from the city below.

The second city murmurs and quakes with activity, the nocturnal unfortunates that populate the alleys and stores go about their business. Loudly. His flat, all four overpriced walls of it, is worthless in keeping the sounds out. He hears everything. The young mother downstairs and her wailing babe. The pair of prostitutes and their line of eager Archadian tourist customers next door. Women fighting outside, their back-and-forth barbs ending in laughter. Men setting out laundry, drinking and sighing.

Bits and pieces of daily and nightly conversations winds up into his ear, happily making his brain abuzz with useless information.

But truly, it is not the idle chatter nor worthless gossip that is useless. Everything is relevant for his plan, for his plots to come to fruition. It is him. _Vayne._ He cannot function with precision should he be stripped free from the demands of the day. In Lowtown, _in bed_ , he becomes rather single-minded. Thoughts of night and day have no purpose for when he isn’t out and bout, trading information as an nation-less informant, but it does so when he is in bed.

When he awakes with a lover.

His lover.

_Galbana._

The word ‘lover’ itself is not strong enough to convey his own carnal stirrings nor his admiration for the man beside him. The beloved that has snared his heart as of late. Sentimentality is not a trait he should be nursing. And yet and still, his heart softens at the sight. The simplicity of it all. To be Novus, merely a man, and to be with, his, Galbana.

The late hour, it casts a dream-like pall over his actions and his thoughts.

Galbana is the cause of it, no doubt. By challenging his resolve, faith and duty to his wish to set free Man and rule all of Ivalice. To bring about a future where his brother, his pure-hearted Larsa, could be safe to remain as he is. Pure. Forthright in his convictions. However, in the night, in the intestines of a metal city, such future is no different than a daydream. Too intangible in this dreary, humid gloom to ever be.

It has no place in this eternal twilight while Galbana, seductress and judge, slumbers nearby.

The thief’s silver-struck hair gleams under the faint emerald bleached light invading through the threadbare curtains. It spills out, like waves of shallow moonlight upon the sand, Vayne unraveling the cloth-band holding it in place before taking in a handful to smell.

Galbana’s hair is harsh between his fingers, bristle-like and calming.

Months’ worth of care is slowly making a dent into the thief’s poor care of his own locks. But Vayne still favors the coarser strands. It helps him remember than Galbana is real and he is awake and this isn’t a dream itself. A sweet delusion to torment him. The jasmine spice he washed into the roots greets him along with the other scents; metal, smoke, sand-dune grass, and oddly enough, freshly baked bread.

_Where does his little thief go when he is not making mischief and entangling Novus into his sheets?_

Galbana unconsciously leans into his open palm, enticing lips curving into a sleepy smile.

Again, the thief lures him, tests him.

Vayne rests his head against his lover and breathes. His lungs move. His blood rushes through his veins. But clarity does not comes to him. Nor common sense. All he can do is breath, taking in all of Galbana. His thievery, his frivolousness, his unique way of seeing the world. Of course, Galbana can have those thoughts. Do those things. He does not have a empire a rule nor a war to survive. Neither does Novus, and that thought, that thought alone. It _scares_ him. It _tempts_ him. The great river Nabria is nowhere nearby but Vayne is drowning, willingly drowning to lay with his destruction.

It wouldn’t be hard for Vayne, son of Archadia, to vanish. Not truly. Perhaps, there would be an outroar in his honor but many eyes would turn to Larsa and the senate. And for his treason, Vayne’s abandonment of his people, the world would burn. Little Larsa isn’t strong enough to fend off the flames of war. Father is weak. The senate, greedy fools. A few of the Judges show promise but their loyalty must be proven, cemented in place. And there is Dr. Cid and Venat.

Too many sins and too many souls are bound around his neck.

Even to breath like this, here, is choking, stifling.

And he loves it very much.

Time passes. It has to. Vayne isn’t trapped in a moment of time. He knows not the seconds or minutes or hours he’s spending staring and breathing. Drowning enthralled like a sailor to a siren. Desertion is only here. Death is only here. He knows this but still he lingers, kisses and loves something that can never be his. Galbana tucks into his war-mongering limbs and lays blissfully in rest, unconcerned that Vayne could kill him in a fit of madness.

Of course, he wouldn’t be.

Vayne isn't here. Novus is the only one with a lover in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think at this juncture I've defined their relationship. This chapter was just me putting in the nails. I've been meaning to write a snapshot collection of moments but I don't think I have in me to write fluff pieces at the moment. 
> 
> *waves hands* 
> 
> Like maybe parts of it might show up in my next FF12 fic but it wouldn't be the focus.

**Author's Note:**

> Now I can take this series anywhere I want. I can't make up whose perspective to write in for the next short. So many choices.


End file.
